


Annihilation

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Breathplay, M/M, Slight Mentions of Gore, Utumno, angbang, dub-con (just to be on the safe side)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The knowledge of his master's expertise, the surety of his grasp, should have comforted, yet had he had breath to spare, the Maia would have hooted his laughter to the chill heavens at the thought that safety might ever greet him in Melkor's hands.</em> </p><p>The first time is an accident: Melkor's forearm pinning his lieutenant to the wall by the throat. The second time, however, is very much deliberate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annihilation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joannabelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/gifts).



Long had the meeting droned. Suggestions had flitted across the table, and Melkor's voice had crushed each of them into the wood as infinitesimal insects. Far above the halls of Utumno, mountain peaks heaved and crumbled, a dusting of scree heralding the topple of stone, gouged out by the blasts of the Valar. And when his lieutenant _insisted_ that they look to these first, that they patch their fortifications and _bide their time_ , Melkor was inclined to crush _him_ to the table as well. 

''Pressing our advantage—'' 

''We do not _have_ an advantage while the fortress is decrepit.'' 

Thus words clashed and there was the hum of steel in Melkor's voice. Orcs and Valaraukar alike scurried into silence, following the debate openly, if a touch warily, as one would the ruthless enormity of an avalanche. No hand touched the tessellation of parchment and quills, not until the flow of voices ebbed into a pause that tasted of the snap of air just before a storm. 

'' _Dismissed_ ,'' rumbled the Vala and thunder seemed to crash in the hollows of the earth. Documents were swept in a wind of arms, footsteps pattered, and the Maia straightened from his seat. 

No word of reprimand clouted him as he strode to the door. Yet fingers that could not have been there so fast grasped, and Mairon found himself bundled into the wall as the door scraped shut behind Gothmog's pursed lips. 

''Have you not pledged your loyalty to me?'' Melkor's words gnawed down Mairon's jaw, the graze of lips, the ache of teeth at his pulse point. He was trapped, glued there between the Vala's forearms, between the nudge of his erection and the abrasion of rock. The Maia flattened himself to the wall. 

''I have, my lord,'' he murmured to the ceiling. It was too easy not to _think_ , of that day or of anytime before or since. It had seemed that his belongings would always be stacked, neat and anticipating, on the shelves; that he would always scheme in secret, snatch time from rest and work to coil upon a seat of stone in woods forgotten by the world, to listen and _sense_ as the Vala spoke. How crudely it had been shattered, and he had not even known it at the time. Aulë's glance had glossed over him, an offhand remark that may or may not have been praise was bestowed upon another; his breastbone nigh had cracked with the lurch of his heart, and just like that, just upon haphazard syllables, the decision had coalesced in a whirlwind. 

Yet Melkor's sheer _physicality_ crowded out all sense of the past and the future, and his words seeped through Mairon like a blood stain. ''Why then would one so punctiliously sworn to my service plot against me? Is it not your duty, _lieutenant_ , to secure _my_ triumph and not theirs?'' 

It was not an accusation; the Vala's displeasure had not been flurried into lightning-crowned wrath. The grind of his cock into his abdomen was proof enough of that. Still—still— 

_My_ triumph, his master's voice had honeyed; not _ours_. _Betrayal_ , he had not crooned, because there never had been, never _would_ be, any need to. And though his words were but soft— _cunning_ —they festered in the Maia's chest as the blistering, retching potency of a Valarin curse, and in their wake he was mangled. 

''I would never do _anything_ against you, my lord,'' Mairon protested, gushing, pouring himself into the assurance, eyes rolling up to hold his master's gaze—a mistake; for Melkor was _smiling_ at him, an indulgent smear of a smile, and his irises glittered like blue agate. 

''Would you not?'' the Vala drawled, kicking his legs apart. With a staccato gasp Mairon clung to the wall, keeling back into the anchor of the stone. _Prove it,_ Melkor would demand, if not through words then through the bruises sown beneath the Maia's skin. 

Mairon twitched into an escape attempt, shimmying out from the crush of his master's bulk, stretching for the door. Then everything sharpened, and burst, like the rip of rain from clouds. 

The Maia's awareness was chiseled into his master's forearm wedged beneath his chin, into his own choking, sputtering shock. A ragged breath rasped down his trachea, and Melkor hefted more of his weight behind the contact. It pulsed down to Mairon's nethers, a jolt as though his master's fingertips had trailed power like a spitting glede over his nakedness. Blown pupils, parted lips, and the tiny, insidious drift of his hips toward the Vala—Melkor looked down upon his lieutenant and _understood_. 

''You like this,'' his master husked, but Mairon could neither deny nor confirm; could merely wheeze and _feel_ —the tingle in his lips, the bob of cartilage against his master's forearm as he tried to swallow, the black, frothing maw snapping shut over his consciousness; and, low in his belly, veining up his length, a smash of arousal that made him _ache_. 

His fingers furrowed across the Vala's forearm, but did not struggle to pry it away from his windpipe. And Melkor watched; through it all his master pinned him with his stare as he had once pinned the first of the Minnónar, even as Mairon felt himself slipping, ever more distant from the clinging throb of each heartbeat. It was just as his vision was crumbling like a fistful of snow that Melkor stepped away. 

Cool air and bottomless lungs, and the Maia slumped back against the wall, scarfing down inhalation that flowed into inhalation. He did not notice the Vala hovering, did not notice the crinkle of his brow, until a hand cupped his cheek and gentled his head out of its droop. Mairon leaned into the touch as the swollen blank of suffocation dissipated, and from beneath galloped addled urgency. 

''Breathe,'' his master instructed as the Maia latched onto his waist in a quiver of fists. ''Hold the air in for me—that's it, little one, there's a good boy.'' His fingers glided lower to assess his lieutenant's pulse, and while his voice fluxed soothing as the burble of magma, Mairon breathed himself into normalcy. Melkor seemed satisfied that he was hale; he tingled a caress back up over his cheekbone, angling him into a pliant kiss. 

''I shall be expecting you in my quarters tonight.'' And with that the Vala swept out of the chamber with the contour of his lips still a ghost over Mairon's own. 

X X 

No metronome marked the beat of time so deep within the earth. Here everything was darkness and eternity, and Mairon had no wish to remember anything else. Not now, when mead churned into a spin at his temples and his master's bulk atop him cushioned him into the pillows. 

Garments dangled off the edge of the bed, dusting the floor; the Maia could not quite recall how they had gotten there. It had been slow, it had been devouring, cool hands guiding him over the bedcovers, lips molding to each strip of bared skin in a slick and a scrape; and for the second time that day, Melkor had asked no more of him than to _feel_. 

Now teeth caught upon the bluff of his hipbone as fingers dragged down to his thighs, levering his legs apart. Mairon hoisted himself upon his elbows, air gusting in through his nose, to stare at the flick of his master's tongue over the underside of his shaft. Melkor threw a glance his way, the curl of a perilous smile, yet before the precariousness of the situation could knit into a thought, lips tightened around his tip, teeth tinkled against the tiny ring looped there, and the Maia's head lolled back with a bubble of a moan. 

He knew no more than the slide of his master's mouth over his cock, the stroke of diligent fingers at his sac. Fervor was whirring in his loins, delight was rocking his thoughts as though no more than driftwood, when of a sudden Melkor pounced: Mairon was wrestled back into the mattress, hands jerked above his head, fitted to one of the spires straining upward from the metal latticework upon the headboard, and there secured within the chafe of a ribbon. 

Too well he knew the knots could not be undone; still he writhed and yanked until the gaunt rattle of metal permeated the bedchamber. His master's left hand shot out and twisted round his neck, and this time it was unyielding as a steel gauntlet. Indignity was a squeak scuttling off his tongue, a cough as fingers flexed, and he sagged back into stillness. 

''Elves are far less resilient to lack of oxygen,'' Melkor began as though scooping up sand and pontificating upon its properties. With his right hand he threw his lieutenant's thighs even further apart, he popped the cork off the vial he had retrieved from the bedside cabinet. Oil poured over the Maia's sac, dripping down to his entrance, where his master's fingers circled and prodded. ''Unconsciousness claims them significantly sooner than it would have claimed you. Even death can ensue, if the strength of the chokehold is not regulated. A kinder demise than most, certainly.'' 

The thrum of the Vala's power, dark energy adhering to every nook and cranny of Utumno, dribbling through rock and crooning from every waver of flame—it had waned after the meeting, and now Mairon knew that it had siphoned down, deeper than the bones of the earth, to bristle amid the wails of those forgotten by kin and sky, those dismantled beneath his master's probing fingers; _research_ , Melkor smiled to call it, muscle unpeeled from bone, innards coiling in jars, gore bright across the floor and its stench heavy enough to cram like mortar into the cracks webbed over the walls. The knowledge of his master's expertise, the surety of his grasp, should have comforted, yet had he had breath to spare, the Maia would have hooted his laughter to the chill heavens at the thought that safety might ever greet him in Melkor's hands. There was a trill of recklessness to his mirth, a howl of surrender, and then there was nothing, nothing at all as the pressure on his airway increased, as nails ruptured down the side of his neck; his chuckle fluttered and died. He was choked into silence as two of the Vala's fingers ground past the ring of muscle, as they steadily jabbed the swirl of nerve endings within him into a pulsing, ecstatic star. Oblivion crowed at him from the fringes of his consciousness, but his master's grip was calculated, never savage enough to send him reeling. 

The fingers were there and pleasure was a haze as the Vala left him gaping to lather oil over his own erection. Mairon fretted low in his throat when his master positioned himself, pelvis cradled against the Maia's own; when he swayed in precise little oscillations, frotting against his lieutenant's cock, igniting gasping pinpricks of bliss. And as the Vala guided the crown of his length to breach his Maia, the vise of his fingers snapped fractionally tighter, and Mairon's vision flashed. 

''Please,'' scratched the glasspaper syllables as his master's hips rolled into a pummeling rhythm. Blood drummed behind his eyeballs, his ear canals felt clogged, and the plea garbled senseless and instinctive past his prickling lips. 

Melkor towered over him, into him, steadying a palm upon his left calf to propel his knee into his chest. The angle changed, it deepened, and the jostle of nerves deep within him flamed a path to the root of his cock. Feral was the shatter of sound in his throat, and the radiance upon his master's face was less smile than ooze of decadence. 

''Look at you,'' the Vala cooed to the crude slap of flesh against flesh. ''How beautifully you strain for me. Yet I shall not touch you, Mairon. Nay—'' The Maia peeled his eyelids back into a look of supplication; but his master's voice grated into a growl, a brawl of syllables ravening as inexorably as his thrusts: ''You shall spill like this.'' 

Mairon made to shake his head, his need clamoring into a sob in his chest, but Melkor's hand around his throat slammed him back into quiescence. ''I can't—'' he croaked, he mouthed, he despaired of his master hearing him; yet his master did hear him, and he should have expected that it would be much worse. 

''You can. And you will, little Maia, you will if you want to come at all.'' 

The ache was pounding low between his hipbones, a glow and a hammer-stroke with each rake of the Vala's length over that jolting spot, and heedless of the chokehold around his neck Mairon thrashed and keened, thin and warped and desperate. He would have begged, but his throat crumpled into reedy, panting breaths, too raw for words. His chest felt compressed, banded close with steel, and beneath, above, around—needles of sensation that shocked into his flesh, that burrowed and bobbed in what felt like annihilation. 

Melkor was purring encouragement to him, but somewhere in the clockwork wind-up of his body, the words were pulverized to nothing but meager firewood to the inferno of his senses. But then— 

But then Mairon felt his muscles seize, felt the shudder in his belly, felt the throb of his cock; and he was plummeting from waves of ecstasy that crashed and roared and drowned as he spurted over his abdomen, his chest, streaks of come that drooled and pooled stark upon the sheets. It was endless and it was brutal and he could do no more than let it happen. 

He floated back into sentience as a feather might upon a gale; he surfaced into lungs feeling cavernous and gelid air hissing between his bones through the fissures that had to be veining his body—for surely no vessel of flesh could weather such a cataclysm. He stirred in his master's arms, he winced at the glutinous slipperiness between his thighs, at the grooves seared into his wrists by the ribbon and the imprint of the Vala's palm over his throat—a bleeding crimson thumping like a mad little heart. 

Melkor unspooled from where he lay curled around his Maia beneath a mound of wolf-pelts; he retracted his right hand from its splay over Mairon's skull, propping up his head, and tightened the sprawl of his other arm across his lieutenant's waist. 

''Back among the living, I see,'' he quipped, and Mairon could not quite find it within himself to begrudge him his conceit. He hummed in something that might have been a reply, ascertaining himself hoarse, and lightly pressed his fingers to his master's forearm. The Vala brushed a kiss to the very corner of his mouth and lowered himself back among the pillows. ''Get some rest,'' he murmured, yet Mairon's breath had already evened out in exhausted slumber. 


End file.
